Eye for an Eye (34 page)

They hadn’t taken either bike full-out yet, but Dowling suspected that Athanasia would beat him in a race; Athanasia was slightly nuts. Most Deltas were nuts, but Athanasia was one click more so. Something suddenly caught Dowling’s attention. He looked back: Athanasia was doing a wheelie, cruising down the A8 on only the back wheel of the bike. Dowling glanced down. His speedometer read 134 miles per hour. Case in point.

In his right ear, Dowling heard the beeping of a phone call.

“Dowling.”

“Go COMM, soldier.”

Dowling clicked the ceramic ring, then saw the upper right screen of his visor light up. On it was a photograph of a man with brown hair, American, handsome, tough-looking.

“This is Colonel Black at the Pentagon,” came a voice in their helmets. “Dowling, Athanasia: you’re on a live briefing with Langley and MI6. This is a Tac One, Code Red project. You are reassigned effective immediately. Johnny, Dino: it could get messy. Watch yourselves, and good luck.”

Dowling knew Athanasia was examining the photo as well. He glanced left; Athanasia’s front tire was still in the air.

“Comm check,” came a woman’s voice, in a stern British accent.

“MI6 O’Toole.”

“MI6 Gatewood.”

“MI6 Farber.”

“MI6 Mueller.”

“CIA Lamontagne.”

“Dowling,” said Dowling. “Delta.”

“Athanasia, Delta.”

“Gentlemen, this is MI6 Smythson,” came the female British voice again, “along with Langley Polk. You are joining a live MI6, CIA, Pentagon operation with no in-theater command control. The situation you’re entering is extremely fluid and highly lethal. You’re on your own, and you need to be really careful, guys. Rules of engagement no longer apply.”

Dowling nodded at Athanasia, trying to get his attention to slow down and exit the highway. Athanasia looked back, but instead of slowing, he have him a thumbs-up and accelerated.

“The photograph you’re looking at is American Dewey Andreas,” continued Smythson. “He is a former member of U.S. Special Forces.”

“What branch?” asked Athanasia.

“Delta,” said Smythson. “Andreas landed in Lisbon less than thirty minutes ago. He is being targeted for assassination by agents from Chinese intelligence. This a Code Red exfiltration. Andreas is a high-value asset.”

“Any idea where he is?” asked Farber, one of the MI6 agents.

“He was at the airport when we flagged him. He killed two ministry agents at the airport before fleeing.”

“Where’s he going?”

“We don’t know.”

“Would he head for the embassy?”

“He might,” said Smythson. “But we don’t know. We’re not going to speculate.”

“Guys, Polk here in Virginia,” came the gravelly voice of Bill Polk, who Dowling knew was the top dog at CIA Special Operations Group. “Andreas ain’t necessarily gonna want to be exfiltrated. He’s a rather independent-minded fellow. I strongly suggest that if you can, you work in pairs. You might need to help convince Andreas of the need for your assistance.”

Dowling and every other person on the call knew what Polk meant: Andreas wasn’t going to come easy.

“Why is China trying to capture him?” asked Dowling.

“They’re not trying to capture him,” answered Smythson. “It’s a kill squad.”

Dowling saw an exit sign ahead. He revved the bike, pushed it to 150 miles an hour, and cut across the road in front of Athanasia. Athanasia had to slow down or else crash into him. Dowling swerved down the exit ramp, forcing Athanasia to his right, down the ramp with him.

“Where do you want him if we get him?” asked O’Toole, another one of the MI6 agents.

“Nearest embassy,” said Polk. “U.S., Britain, Israel, Canada, in that order. Avoid PSP. China has too many people there, and neither he, nor you, will be safe.”

“Is anyone near the airport right now?” asked Smythson.

“Yeah,” said Dowling. “Delta One and Two.”

“Are you mobile?”

“Yes,” said Dowling. “Very.”

“I want a screen of the highways leading into the city,” said Smythson. “Run hard. Stay together. Do it quickly. Special Ops, get to the train station. I want Gatewood and Mueller over at the U.S. Embassy. Watch for snipers. O’Toole, get to a central spot downtown and work circuits, bus stations, and hotels. Farber, where are you?”

“A Five.”

“Head east, toward the airport.”

“Roger.”

“Everyone stay live on COMM. We’re looking hard for more intel, and we’ll pass it on as soon as we get it.”

“How many on the kill team?” asked one of the MI6 agents.

“Assume it’s at scale,” said Smythson. “Ten to fifteen guys.”

“What this means, gentlemen,” added Polk, “is that you need to be really fucking aware of your fields of fire. There’s a shit-ton of Chinese guys running around Lisbon right now, and, as you know, they’re not very nice. They have a head start on you. If you suspect someone is Chinese intelligence, take him down.”

“And watch yourselves,” said Smythson. “They’ll assume we’re there. I don’t have to tell you what that means. Good luck.”

67

BEIJING

In Beijing, a voice abruptly interrupted the low din of conversation. It came from the speakerphone.

“This is Chiu,” said the Chinese agent, his voice faint and scratchy. “I see him. I have him in my sights.”

Bhang walked to the speaker.

“What do you have, agent?” asked Bhang.

“I have the white Mercedes, moving along the A Two,” said the agent. “I assume it’s him.”

“How fast is he moving?” asked Bhang.

“Very fast.”

Bhang stepped in front of the left plasma screen, quickly assessing the live map of Lisbon proper. He found the agent’s flashing red GPS moving along the A2. Bhang studied the map, taking a drag on his cigarette. He pointed to the A2, tracing the path forward, where they were headed. A few miles ahead, he saw another flashing light, along another freeway, the A5.

“Huong,” barked Bhang.

“Yes, Minister,” said Huong.

“They’re coming at you. Get ready.”

“Yes, Minister.”

“Agent two, you have Huong in approximately five miles,” said Bhang. “I want a pinch and cut: push the Mercedes toward Huong. Don’t let him get off the road if you can help it.”

“He marked me,” said Chiu.

“That doesn’t matter. When you see Huong, attack the Mercedes. Watch your fields of fire, both of you. In the meantime, I want everyone else on the A2 heading north; provide backup. They will be in the opposite lane. No mistakes. Let’s finish the job.”

*   *   *

Dewey noticed a plain-looking silver sedan in the passenger-side mirror.

He was getting close to downtown Lisbon. The highway was congested, though still moving at more than fifty miles per hour. Something about the car made him look twice. It seemed to hover back there, clinging to him but not taking him on.

Dewey switched lanes once, then another time; after half a dozen quick lurches, he slowed up, then went faster. The sedan stayed in approximately the same position, five or six car lengths back, center lane. It was a silver Ford Taurus.

Their tactics were good. That was obvious. The surveillance was textbook. Dewey knew they had found him and were now calling in the cavalry.

He didn’t think about how they’d figured it out. It didn’t matter now.

He floored the AMG, hopping into the right lane, and was soon at 110 miles an hour, swerving in and out of car traffic, horns blaring at him.

In the rearview, the silver sedan kept pace, hovering five car lengths back.

*   *   *

Huong was moving east on the A5, his left hand on the Porsche’s steering wheel, right hand reaching behind him and pulling out his QBZ-95G Arsenal 5.8
×
42mm/DBP87 assault rifle.

Huong glanced down at the speedometer. He was cruising at a relatively moderate seventy-five miles an hour; he knew precisely how far he was from the A2, and he wanted to get on the road just behind Chiu and the American.

Huong wasn’t going to miss his chance to kill him this time.

“I’ll be at the A Two in three minutes,” said Huong. “Chiu, stay behind him. I’ll pass him and then we’ll converge and attack.”

“Understood.”

A minute later, Huong saw the first sign for the A2, two miles ahead.

“I’m two miles out,” said Huong. “Where are you?”

“About to pass the exit,” said Chiu.

At the entrance ramp to the A2, Huong barely slowed, banking around the sharp curve of the on-ramp. He swerved into the breakdown lane and passed two cars on the ramp, then surged into the heavy traffic of the A2. He slammed the pedal down, shifted with paddles on the back of the steering wheel, and ripped across three lanes into the left-hand lane, hitting ninety miles an hour in a handful of seconds.

“Be right there,” said Huong.

“He’s in the middle lane.”

“I’ll approach from the driver’s side. When you see me pass you, fall in line and join me from the back. Fire on my go.”

*   *   *

Dewey kept the Mercedes throttled hard, hitting upward of one hundred miles an hour but needing to slow down quickly and often to avoid hitting other cars.

The AMG was fast and extremely responsive. The car’s brakes were unbelievable.

Yet no matter what he did, the silver Taurus stayed with him.

Horns blared as he swerved in and out of the freeway’s crowded lanes.

The bright blue Porsche appeared out of nowhere. Dewey saw it immediately. It was a shiny blue apparition in the rearview mirror, with a surfboard attached to the roof. Dewey knew it was coming for him.

The car was tearing up the left-hand lane. When it reached a car in front of it, the Porsche simply swerved into the breakdown lane on the left, barely avoiding the concrete divider, and kept going.

Dewey was going as fast as he could without losing control. The Porsche would be with him in no time.

Dewey pulled the Glock from his holster. He put his left knee under the steering wheel and steered with his left thigh as he jammed a fresh mag into the sidearm.

He saw a long straightaway without a car on it, and he slammed the pedal down hard. The AMG burst like a cannonball and was soon at 140 miles an hour.

The 911 moved into line behind Dewey, gaining on him despite the acceleration.

“Fuckin’ A,” Dewey said, watching as the Porsche moved to within a car’s length.

The Porsche’s windshield was tinted black.

In Delta, there were two core tenets to evasion when being chased in a car. The first was speed. The second, the element of surprise. Unfortunately, neither tactic was going to work: the 911 was faster than his AMG, and surprising what were clearly highly trained agents would be next to impossible. He was moving much too quickly to attempt a braked 180; and if he slowed down, the two cars would pounce and start firing at point-blank range.

In fact, that was about to happen anyway.

Dewey swerved right, onto a short, empty stretch of road along the right side of the highway. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bright blue of the 911, scorching into the fast lane. A red BMW was now between Dewey and the blue Porsche.

Dewey lowered his window, then lifted the Glock in his right hand.

Shots suddenly echoed across the highway, above the traffic and horns. Then came the sound of glass shattering, and a faint, awful scream. The BMW popped abruptly left, spinning, glass and metal shattering as the car was riddled with slugs from the Porsche. The BMW flipped over and came to a spinning rest on its roof.

The Porsche moved toward Dewey now, as, behind him, he caught sight of the silver Ford Taurus closing in.

Dewey glanced left and saw the muzzle of an assault rifle in the window of the Porsche, then a long-haired Chinese man with sunglasses on.

Dewey triggered the Glock, firing as fast as his finger would move. Bullets struck the side of the Porsche, then the back window. The driver swerved, braked, then accelerated, trying to throw Dewey off.

In the rearview mirror, a gun emerged from the window of the Taurus. The low, dull boom of a large-caliber carbine arose above the chaos, just as the first big cartridge ripped steel at the back of the AMG. The next slug hit the back window, shattering it.

Dewey saw a large truck in front of the Porsche, a quarter mile ahead. He memorized his position, then ducked, flooring it toward the right breakdown lane, as slugs pelted the Mercedes from the Porsche to his left and the Taurus from behind.

The Porsche had to slow at the back of the truck, then was temporarily boxed in to the right. Dewey pressed the pedal to the ground and eyed the speedometer as the Mercedes climbed to 165 miles per hour. He put the Glock down, reached to his left, and put his seat belt on.

In the distance, sirens grew louder and seemed to come from all directions.

*   *   *

“This is Pacheco,” came a voice over Dowling’s COMM. “I have PSP reporting a high-speed chase on the A Two, near downtown. There were multiple gunshots.”

“Delta One, Two are on the A Two,” said Dowling. “Which direction, NSA?”

“Southbound.”

“I need a map, MI6,” said Dowling.

“You got it.”

A graphic shot up in the right corner of Dowling’s helmet, showing a map of the A2, with his position on the highway a blinking yellow light; a green circle showed where the gunfire had come from.

“Delta One and Two have it,” said Dowling. “Where are they in relation to the A Five?”

Dowling glanced to the lane next to him, at Athanasia. Dowling nodded, then cranked the throttle. The motorcycle rocketed forward, hitting 130 miles per hour in seconds. Athanasia moved in line behind him.

“PSP south of the A Five, toward April Two-five Bridge.”

Dowling knew exactly where they were. He and Athanasia were at least two miles behind them.

“How many cars?”

“They’ve APB’d a blue 911 and a white Mercedes AMG.”

“Okay, Langley, I need a street-level view of the bridge.”

“Here we go.”

A street-level terrain view replaced the map in the upper right corner of Dowling’s helmet, showing Lisbon’s 25th of April Bridge. As Dowling moved at more than 140 miles an hour, he studied the terrain he was about to engage the enemy on.